Unmarked Grave
by ColossalBeltloop
Summary: Another day, another night, another woman, another heist. Flynn Rider isn't getting tired or rusty at his profession any time soon... or so it seems. - A darker retelling.
1. Chapter 1

It was late afternoon, but the sky donned the cool, wispy colors and atmosphere of a rising dawn; burdened by heavy rainfall.

Sharp, relentless water drops beat down on a thin window hardly seeming capable of taking such a brutal pounding. It rattled loudly and trembled with agony, looking ready to cave to the weather's insistent assault. A bored child could stare at it, wondering if it would burst in the same manner that a belt would explode from a rotund culinary candidate at a festival steak-eating contest.

But there were no children in this rusty smelling cabin. The room was coated in darkness and a surprising amount of warmth. A fire had long been kindled and the heat lingered within the thick wooden walls like a pulsing oven. The storm outside rolled in waves of severity as the droplets came down in lesser number, but were now colder, heavier and rounder. Their fall still maintained an intrusive angle that said they would rather be inside the cabin than outside it. But the frail glass that shielded their invasion withheld stubbornly. It merely gave a prattling hum, though it was constant enough to jab the sanity out of those unaccustomed to such weather. Regardless, the jarring noise was a welcome substitute to travelers that would rather not be taking the same abuse as their shelter.

This is exactly what would be figured out by the body that was suddenly thrown out the front door, heels sent skidding on the slippery, splintered porch, tripping on a protruding knot, landing skillfully on his feet until the mud gave way and soon became indented with his face.

"Argh ye stupid whore hounding bastard! If my gun wasn't in the shop I'd blow off yer ass!"

A second pair of footsteps was heard rushing at the door, soon accompanied by the shrill voice of an incomprehensible house wife. The young man in the mud got to his feet cautiously to avoid another spill when he started to get bombarded by random objects and food items; everything from rain rotted leather boots to a tin cup full of cold coffee, which conveniently managed to stay inside the cup until it crashed and drenched his favorite vest. He hoped the pouring rain would sidle its staining affects, otherwise a new one was in order. He really didn't want to have to spend his hard earned stolen money.

After the onslaught of projectiles stopped, the young man figured the wife had run out of valueless things to throw, until he looked up from his shielding hands.

He froze.

Their gun may have been in the shop, but unlike the emotionally distraught husband, the wife apparently had enough clarity to know what else could be used as a weapon, as she tightly clutched a dislodged bayonet.

No other words of vile wrath need be spoken before the rain soaked intruder would show them how fast he could run in mud.

But before he dug in his heels, he felt the need to open his mouth. After all, he never got the chance to introduce himself or explain the situation.

And for a moment, that's exactly what the older couple expected as he straightened himself out.

"By the way, you're husband just called your daughter a whore. You might want to give that some thought before you decide who to stab," came the suggestion as he pointed between himself and the husband.

He then shrugged, waved, and swiftly went on his way, disappearing behind a misty wall of fog and rain, his footsteps confident and nimble despite the overbearing descent of water. His deep foot prints in the slushy mud were finally erased by wind and densely gathered water that left the mass of land torn by weather, but appearing untouched by man— not leaving a trace— as if he had never been there.

* * *

The doors of a beer drenched pub were opened and a broad shouldered, sopping wet figure stepped in, water spilling out the brim of his boots with each step. The crowd was only a fraction of its normal size, since those with any wit didn't want to travel to the local pub in the icy storm.

But for those that felt the lack of beer and rum was a greater death than pneumonia— found themselves slouched and sprawled over a single table; warm, awkwardly comfortable, and dry for many hours.

"Shit, Rider you just come up from a wet hell or what?"

"More like a wet heaven," he said lamely, taking up a seat closest to the fire. There was an exchange of universal praise in the form of 'ohhs', 'ahhs' and grunts of chuckling.

"You picked a fine day for that. She must've been somethin'…?"

"It wasn't raining when we started," Flynn shrugged, and then grinned.

Another gritty, bad breathed applause made the rounds.

"Luckily, I was already dressed and about to leave before the parents caught sight of me. They came back a day early because of all the good weather," he added sarcastically.

"Ahhhhahaha dumb young studs and their lack of discernment," one grumbled through his smile.

"The weather was on my side anyway. There's no way I was gonna get caught. It worked out in the end… like always. By the way, do I look like a giant walking coffee stain?" he asked looking down at himself, but distrusting his angle and the weak lighting.

"There ain't a trace of any of your romping; coffee stains or otherwise, Rider— not if you've been out in _that_ hell storm."

"Good…then getting _this_...really was worth it." He deftly slipped a handful of glittering trinkets from his belt pockets.

"I'll take the snuff pouch. _Now_." Hungrily said a normally quiet thug, eying the trinket greedily.

"You will? Fine. Anyone else want to bid on my goods? Otherwise I'll be waiting till Russell gets here."

"He's here. Passed out. He ran outta whiskey yesterday, so he ran here on foot. Got here in a fit of tears and then binged until he puked and fell in the bath tub."

"I guess that still means I'll be waiting for him to get here," Flynn said through a sigh, pocketing his recent belongings before taking off his boots and scooting closer to the fire.

He stared at the wavering flames as wafts of warm air dried his clothes and warmed his shivering bones.

A ripple of tire traveled through a body now realizing it had been drained of most of its adrenaline.

"I'm gonna crash right here, if no one minds…and I'll do it anyway if anyone does," Flynn announced.

"Dry yourself off, lad. No one's gonna mind."

Flynn took off his vest, dragged the bear rug closer to the inviting flames and plopped down on it. Sleep came to him as he smiled crookedly and thought just how well everything was going despite the usual minor mishaps.

Morning arrived and Flynn hastily rose with it. He heard movement upstairs, and with any luck, Russell's hangover was either non-existent; or would cloud his judgment into coughing up more money than deserved. Whatever the scenario, he hoped the man would still be willing to bargain.

"A varying assortment of random items, but once again, of superb quality," Russell said, having no physical ramifications of the night's drunken coma. Russell was an eloquent orator and very precise with his words; which made it all the more oddly funny that he could get piss drunk like it was nobody's business.

"I'll give you 10 for the frame, 25 for the necklace, 15 for the brooch and another 10 for mirror…" he laid down his eye piece, "and 30 for the rest of it. You make out with 90 silver pieces. My God, are you trying to get rich or something?" he joked scratchily.

"It's a thought."

"Where did you get it this time?"

"Doesn't matter…but let's just say I look a lot better than a stray dog wandering around lonely cabins in the woods, especially when there's an equally lonely girl who works the garden with her mother more than she gets the chance to visit town."

Russel's brows twitched upward.

"You do realize that you could be stealing their life savings? Family heirlooms?"

"You do realize that you're buying them?"

Russell tightened his lips before throwing a bag of coins unceremoniously on the table.

"Count it. 100 silver if I don't have to see your mug for another two months…at least."

Flynn picked up the bag, able to tell by the weight alone that its amount was sufficient, and walked out the door with a wave and a shining smile.

With a successful sale behind him, he felt the enticing attraction and restlessness of travel nip at the bottom of his feet.

It was time to move on.

It was time to become unfamiliar to this place.

It was time to be forgotten.


	2. Chapter 2

Flynn knew better than anyone that the richest people aside from the king and queen— were whores...

Somehow that realization could always make him chuckle. The one aspect such opposite ends of life and status could relate to was finances.

Flynn knew this only because he had robbed them blind so numerously... like now for instance. He wasn't about to _walk_ to his deliberately planned destination, no. He was now saddled up on a shiny, fit, young, brand new, never abused stallion with big, tight joints and conveniently massive, ground covering gaits. Dappled black, lightly feathered and imposing in posture and carriage, with an equally smug and puffed up rider sitting evenly on his powerful back. These two did not look like the endeavors of petty thievery. Flynn was a bandit from the upper class.

But thieving from well to do harlots was often tricky and, he had to admit, not always successful. There were ground rules established; self imposed ground rules oddly enough. For one thing, Flynn never slept with whores.

Never.

Because whores slept with everyone.

_Everyone._

Everyone including the walks of life he had no desire to relate intimacy with; from the sweat-engulfed pub rats he may have swindled the night before, to desperate, raucous palace guards, to unsuspecting teenage boys...

He got a shudder every time. He preferred the disease-free variety. This mostly included house wives, mid wives, new wives, soon-to-be wives and ex-wives. Plus his personal favorite, (at least sentimentally speaking) included young women who just barely graduated from girlhood and had very searching eyes and very obvious desires in spite of themselves, and whatever moral fiber was instilled in them—or ignored. Flynn could spot them from a mile off. He could weaken them by his mere approach.

But back to the whores…

These women who got paid for their philandering were amongst the most cunning and clever to walk the earth. If they channeled their skills in other areas, they would be immensely successful, with a deserving reputation of prosperity. Such a realization made them look all the more tragic. However, few of these women thought of it this way, considering how effortless it was for them to pay the bills and carelessly indulge.

For Flynn, in order to channel that payment into his pocket, (without ever having to defile himself with them) he had to keep his wits about the moment they opened the door. Those wits were hair splitting sharp with years spent honing, crafting, and meditating on full-proof tactics. He was an experienced veteran of every imaginable form of internal warfare— perverse or otherwise.

These musings cluttered his thoughts after galloping for nearly a mile. The tireless stallion eventually reached the top of a slick, muck coated hill. He was pulled up for a brief pause, as Flynn looked back on the territory of his most recent accomplishments. A break in the weather but not its aftermath aggravated him, making him think he would have to leave the country entirely to be liberated from soggy soil. The rampaging blanket of free falling storms had ravaged the land for the past several days. The remaining remnants slowly dragged through the countryside like a misty serpent dragging its countless foggy tails— until finally it faded into atmospheric obscurity, allowing the sun to bake the landscape into stability again.

The eyes of a thief scanned the chilly valley with attention and scrutiny. He would leave it the way he came— on the back of a stolen horse. If he didn't feel a need to stay, he didn't. If nothing intrigued him to return, he wouldn't. Flynn gathered the reins, patted his newly acquired steed on the neck and turned his back, for what he was certain would be forever.

* * *

"Break time, buddy," Flynn dismounted swiftly. His boots smoothly clicked against the rounded cobblestones beneath, before tying the big, plucky stallion to a hitching post in front of a tavern. They had traveled over a hundred miles in the past three days, and Flynn found himself at the outskirts of a village he hadn't visited in years, but easily recognized.

He entered into what was secretly yet not so secretly a gilded thief's den; pretty and prim on the outside, vile, lecherous and corrupt on the inside. Not unlike himself. Of course, he would like to replace the word's 'pretty' and 'prim' with 'handsome' and 'rugged'. Other than that, this place was a mirror of himself, and he liked it.

He casually strode into the bar and stopped. The place was full and nearly all of its occupants were women; young, pretty women who were now ignoring their partners and eying the stranger who entered.

To the disappointment of the adjoining mass of women that decided they wanted a closer look at the handsome intruder, Flynn had no desire to exhaust himself by impressing them with his sexual exploits— as much as he would have liked to. He had traveled a hundred miles from his last crime, and a hundred miles was not far enough, not for him. He wanted to keep moving.

This didn't mean he wouldn't allow himself to be caressed and groped as he took brief respite and sipped a drink that burned more than the growing monotony of their hollow touches. When he finally told them he was just passing by, he was received by a chorus of suggestive groans, pouting lips and suddenly barren shoulders. He promised he would return in exchange for the direction to the capital.

"You gotta girl waitin' for your there, mister?" cooed a leggy gypsy.

"No, clearly all my girls are here," he smiled, wiggling his brows, looking idiotic to the entire male populous, but dashing to the grabby females.

Getting the information he sought, he bailed swiftly so that he wouldn't 'accidentally' expend his preserved energy on the verbose groaning of clearly unsatisfied women, or pick a slew of fights with spitefully jealous men.

"So how do you like the kingdom of Corona so far?" Flynn asked his sleepy eyed steed on approach. The stallion perked up, anticipating more travel.

"We just barely crossed the border, but this is officially sun symbol territory. I use to have a reputation here. I think it's time to freshen some sore guard's memories. I even remember some of them by name. Good times…" he droned, half to his horse, half to himself. Flynn tightened the cinch, mounted up.

This particular kingdom had a wonderfully spacious circumference of territory. It allowed for all kinds of larceny that could be accomplished with many victims that would take too long to investigate, before he was already on the other side of the kingdom. The fact that Flynn Rider once had wanted posters tacked over every tree and tract proved that one had to be pretty damn notorious. To Flynn, it was a badge of honor…as long as they got his nose right.

However, it had been at least five years since he last stepped foot in this kingdom. He didn't need directions to the capitol because he forgot. It was because routes change, construction happens, and guards change their routines. He doubted he was half as infamous as he was before, but he knew when to take risks and when to stay elusive. For all he knew, they had all but forgotten Flynn Rider. He was a living legend that passed down and brought life to their boring, steady lives. And now, he was again real in the present, and ready to write another chapter to be spoken from their perpetual scowls.

As he casually rode through open streets, he noticed various wanted posters of thieves he had no recognition of. He felt there was little to worry about at this point, but remained cautious as he entered among a populous of citizens. They looked harmless and unsuspecting enough. These people were far more peaceful and carefree, compared to the ones he had been hanging out with recently.

He took his horse to a stable for daily boarding and surveyed his surroundings. Even though much of it had changed, the soul of it…the foundation it was built on still lured him from any distance he traveled. He could never be away for too long, and five years was nearly unbearable, especially now that he was back. It almost made him feel a bit sad that he was going to have to delve into old habits that got him so infamous here in the first place. He was setting the wheel in motion again, as if he had never left, or perhaps to return like a ghost to haunt an old place filled with new people.

"Sign here…" mumbled the stable manager. Flynn used a 'fake' name before observing people…strangers…helping other strangers set up celebratory kinds of stands, booths and purple flags with highly contrasted yellow sun emblems. There was gentleness and happiness, yet a melancholy way about their tasks. Flynn stared for a moment with his hand to his chin before the realization hit him.

"They're not still doing that celebration, er…tribute, whatever— the lantern thing they do every year, are they?"

"Every year, "the man answered, storing the signed document and sliding a similar parchment toward Flynn.

"But…still?" he inquired, "How long are they going to do it? Hasn't it been twenty years or something? God, I remember it when I was a kid."

"It'll be 18 years this Friday," the man corrected. "The king and queen will probably uphold it until their death beds. It's such a deep tradition now. It may go on forever."

"Kinda sad…" Flynn shrugged, staring at the dangling flags gently aloft in the light breeze.

"Still possible…" came a grumble.

"What?" Flynn turned with a dubious expression, "_you_— grumpy, frumpy, sluggish old man who hasn't said ten words, still thinks there's hope for the lost and probably dead princess?"

The man looked up with a dark gaze, unfazed by the insult, but soon making it clear that he was very loyal to said lost and probably dead princess.

"You watch what you say, boy. I can tell you haven't been here a while, but you know what? We're still here, and we still commemorate her birthday. So I suggest you be a bit more respectful. There are others less sluggish but still grumpy who might throttle you."

"All right, all right. I didn't mean to hurt anyone's feelings. Don't poison my horse, okay? I'll be back tonight."

And he went on his way, feeling the need for another round of drinks. With the shifting weight of a decent fortune continually reminding him of its presence, he decided he'd spend a bit of it at a nicer, cleaner, safer tavern in the heart of the kingdom. Of course he didn't bring _all_ of his earnings; having carefully spread most of it in various hiding places on his way here. But he still carried enough to make life pleasurable for the better part of the year, if he decided to stay that long. He hadn't made up his mind yet. The idea seemed nice though.

He entered the relatively quiet pub. The bartender had his back turned and made no effort to acknowledge the new visitor. Flynn quietly slid up to the bar without bothering to sit.

"Chen…" he muttered bluntly.

The bartender stopped everything he was doing and turned around. Flynn gave him a slight smile.

"Been gone too long, huh kid?"

"Five years." Flynn answered coolly.

"Then it seems Chen left about the same time you did. No one knows where he went, and everyone presumes him dead. Then again, everyone thought you were dead too."

"Well, it took you long enough to remember me," Flynn shook his head, "I'm hurt. How could you forget this face?"

"Trust me, I tried very hard. My efforts were successful right up until this moment. You might not find Chen here, but some of his associates remained…" he gestured over to a far table with a pair of burly redheads. They sat across a short, pudgy man whose feet couldn't reach the floor. He wore thick silver spectacles, insisted on keeping his hat on, and donned grubby, muddy colored clothes that was surprisingly expensive in quality. Sitting next to him was and a harshly trodden, middle aged woman wearing a pale dress, with pale eyes, a pale complexion; and looking miserable in general. It was an odd sight altogether.

"Have what you will with those boys, but keep me the hell out of it this time," he growled.

"Never again, I know. It looks like I have to improvise anyway," he got up, strutting to the table.

"Excuse me guys and gals, may I have a seat? I'm an old friend of a certain Chinese settler who apparently is no longer present. But I was told you knew him. Of course I use the term 'friend' very loosely."

The three men at the table stared for a moment. The woman never lifted her head.

"You knew Chen?" spoke the pudgy man.

"I think I'm the reason he's gone. I helped get him his fortune. He took a little more than half of our bargain. I planned on getting it back, but he's not here. I'm not surprised, and I'm not too sore about it either. I would've done the same, considering the stupid lot we were working with."

There was an exchange of glances, and the pudgy man pulled out a chair.

"Sit."

Flynn took up the seat and eyed the woman.

"Your secretary?"

"My payment."

"Ah…"

"Go wait in the carriage dear, I'll be there in a few minutes," his moist voice grew all the more greasy sounding. Immediately feeling sorry for the woman, Flynn struggled against the sudden pang of nausea. His neutral features somehow remained intact.

Without looking up, she stood and floated out as quietly as a ghost, pride and shame the only semblance to the living.

"So what are you boys up to? And are Chen's whereabouts completely untraceable?" Flynn skipped the small talk. None of these men looked able to tolerate it.

"He's dead," uttered the growling voice of one of the redheads.

"Figures…" Flynn sighed.

"I killed 'im…"

Flynn eyed the redhead expressionlessly.

"So what brings you here, then? Couldn't find his fortune?" he asked, showing no fear of what he internally acknowledged were going to be his new associates.

"That's where I come in, young man," spoke the pudgy one. His fingers were short and stained. His nails looked as yellowed and unkempt as his teeth. And yet, he wore the clothes of an upperclassmen, just of the disheveled sort. Flynn could tell, he was a ratty, sneaky swindler with fine taste, but little cleanliness and etiquette."Indeed, his fortune was found," the greasy piker continued, "but something else of interest—something in paper that needed proper interpretation was also discovered..."

He had Flynn's full attention now.

"Fortunately for you, all of the cryptic work has been resolved. All we need at this point is someone to do the deed...the timing of your arrival is uncanny," he breathed, speaking solely through his teeth now.

All three men sternly locked eyes with Flynn.

"Ah, indeed everyone has their role," Flynn mused haughtily, adjusting his vest, "how many women am I going to have to 'woo'?"

"None."

"Darn."

"This is a stealth job."

Flynn leaned forward and eyed them all just as critically. His previous arrogant airs were masked long enough for them to know that he was taking this job, like every previous one, _very_ seriously.

"And how well does this stealth job pay?"


	3. Chapter 3

Stabbington brothers.

How perfect.

Did their mother know they were going to interpret their last name in such a vile, literal way? Were they so dense that they thought they didn't have a choice?

While Flynn pondered over how their harsh surname catered to their career choice, he could tell they were by no means idiots. They were shrewd, no-nonsense brutes, callously astute, and void of empathy.

In other words, they were as blunt as a bloodied war hammer.

Their eyes were keen and absorbing of whatever information could be tailored to suit their greedy, swaying desires. They could kill, trap, ensnare and enslave for riches, no matter how pretty, innocent, or young the victims. Years of dead men's blood had sullied their chipped fingernails. The variety of their skills and talents gained a formidable reputation, and allowed them an array of elicit tactics to accomplish their goals. Their heists ranged from swift and fiercely unforgiving; to patiently drawn out and tightly elaborate.

All of which required more brains than Flynn normally liked to deal with, regardless of how superior he felt.

_But they_ definitely were not accustomed to Flynn Rider style heisting.

Of all the jobs Flynn ever had in his entire profession as a thief, this was by and wide the most preposterous. Even so, he had to admit the lucrative aspirations were too great to ignore. The bragging rights of achieving such a feat; the stories he could tell, the island he could buy, the castle he could build on it, all whirled in his mind.

So what was the goal? To obtain a family heirloom. He'd done that lots of times. Russell felt he'd done it one time too many.

This would be the ultimate.

This was an heirloom that belonged to a princess the citizens pathetically celebrated despite her proverbial absence; despite having never seen her past infancy, and despite her _obvious_ demise.

Flynn rubbed his hands together. The crown of Corona was it? He immediately began fathoming just how much _more_ money he could make with the crown all to himself. He couldn't help it. It was a fixed habit. And it made him evaluate his two big bad companions more carefully. Where were they careless? Where were they vigilant? What could distract them and make them lose focus? What were their average sleeping hours?

Unbeknownst to them, Flynn was making every possible strategy against them, and ultimately in his own, lone, solo, solitary favor.

"All right, Rider. On the west side of the second tallest spire is the roof to the coronation hall. On the 17th shingle we've got a tar spot marked. We peel that part off, tie a bungee to you, and after that your job starts. You got that?"

Flynn got that.

He made quick work of retrieving the crown, and intentionally made a smarmy remark to alert the guards while he was at it. All part of the plan…sort of…

"What in the hell happened, Rider?" cursed the brother with both working eyes.

Flynn answered by babbling on about owning his own castle and the stellar view that would go with it, all the while leading them into a forest he had not entered in years. So much had changed over a period of time he considered short, but the forest found it long enough to grow thick and barbed, with narrow means of passage.

Now he suddenly found himself improvising and cursing his rashness for not making the time to check routes sooner. Granted, he was watched by his new partners diligently and hardly had a moment to venture anywhere alone. He still felt troubled by the unusual carelessness on his part.

His thoughts were broken by the echoing screech of a furious white stallion that halted before his path, and atop his back sat a bellowing—

"Sweetums! It's been soooo long!" Flynn jested, "you just can't be rid of the 'stache, huh? 'Makes you look older you know."

The captain took a moment to take in the sight of a young renegade he thought had bailed on the kingdom forever. It was wishful thinking. Five years was too short a time to hope for something like that.

"GET THEM!" he roared, too overcome with emotion to announce specifics.

Flynn darted backwards. In the noise and commotion and rushing adrenaline, the three thieves had trouble staying in sync with each other; something Flynn was ready to take advantage of.

Finally, a near collision with a band of horses at a forked road presented an opportunity.

"Here!" Flynn called, intentionally throwing the satchel with sloppy accuracy at the Stabbington's general direction. This caused a raucous of grunts, trips and flailing arms as the greedy fire in them ignited, tunneling their vision and sending them both in a frenzy to acquire their precious loot.

"Meet me at the south gate, I've got a plan," Flynn lied easily, darting away before bothering to witness who finally possessed the satchel.

A single rider skidded in front of Flynn, gleaming saber in hand, and took a practiced swing.

Dodging the whirling blade and side-stepping the horse's trampling hooves, Flynn used his momentum to leap atop the beast; squarely kneeing the rider in the face. The harsh shift in balance caused the horse to slip and tumble over; a heavy, clanging sound of crashing armor bouncing off the broad leaves of the forest.

After observing what _appeared_ to be a sloppy distraction, the Stabbington brothers made off with their newly attained prize and never looked back.

With the captain on a different route, and this disorganized herd of guards having uncreative, one-track minds, the majority of them ended up chasing after the two burly, and likely slower culprits who held the dangling shoulder bag. Almost with ease, Flynn slipped away. His last two detractors soon lost interest in goading their horses through the thick brush, deciding instead to follow the hollers of the rest of the guards. One thing hadn't changed during Flynn's 5-year absence. The local authorities still sucked at their jobs.

* * *

As he continued to dive under heavy brush, he heard a thundering procession of armored riders suddenly rush by. He backed into the deep inlet of a massive tree, carefully observing the varying directions taken and shouting orders given. Flynn waited till all was quiet, eyes narrowed with focus. When the stuffy sound of palace malice faded, he remained on all fours, crawling deeper into the intricate flora, until the thickness of foliage covered any trace of the road and open fields.

For his own satisfaction, and maybe a little bit of assurance, Flynn flipped the top of one of his belt bags and took a peek. Tossing a few reflections unto his face, the crown lay snug and safe against his side. He smirked confidently, tied the bag securely and padded it affectionately with his calloused, experienced fingers.

Without much mind for anything else but his own accomplishments, he casually strode deeper into the hushed heart of the forest. However, his laid-back airs quickly started to fade, as the omniscient presence of ancient verve began to drag their claws down his neck, effectively skinning him of his cockiness. The hairs inevitably stood on end, and he stopped dead.

He straightened up to stand taller, making sure to breathe. It was a strange thought to maintain, but for the moment, he felt it was necessary. He took a few more steps, and then stopped again to gather his thoughts and analyze his surroundings more closely.

"Damn…" Flynn said looking around, He wasn't upset— he was impressed. This forest was a frightful looking hiding spot; the kind with attributes that earned themselves in children's fairytales.

But he was smart enough to know that he wasn't the only person depraved enough to think this. Surely others used this neck of the woods for their own nefarious deeds. He was going to have to snoop carefully.

After about 100 meters in, Flynn began to question his own suspicions. The forest was so dense and _pointy_, it seemed unreasonable for anyone to inhabit this place, even to hide valuables.

Still… there was something about it that coaxed him— _dared_ him to not only remain, but to dig deeper. He had nothing better to do than hide…why not see if this place was truly worthy? So far, it seemed over qualified.

Flynn scanned and scrutinized intensely, fitting himself into narrow openings, jumping away from sudden drop offs, and flinching at the scurrying of small animals.

Slowly, as his feet gently crunched the dry herbs and blackened leaves under his carefully placed feet, the atmosphere seemed to be gaining more and more of its own identity. Wafts of static life, clustered in pockets of dense, murky air frequently glided over him. It was warm and alluring, yet helplessly sluggish and dismal. A bizarre thought struck him, but it seemed uneasily fitting:

Never had he felt like he was walking within the guts of something.

_And then…_

Flynn's head shot up, eyes and nose in the air, his hearing keen on every sound—

Gently…very gently, like an illusion for the ears, this place seemed to carry a voice. It lingered with a sweet, soothing fragrance that contrasted against the harsh tree limbs that twisted in ostensible agony; dark, warped, lonely and broken. An unexpected and frightening urge to give that loneliness company made him slap his head before shaking it in disbelief.

This place was getting to him.

And yet he kept going. He convinced himself of many empty reasons as to why he should. Surely it had nothing to do with the voice that seemed woven within the crusted, tangled, branches, pulsing within the bark grooves like airy arteries, crying out to anyone that would enter— not out of blood-soaked, impious threats, but of desperate, keening wails for help—

It was then that Flynn noticed something that violently shook him out of his stupor. It would not have been noticed by the casual wayward traveler or any lost civil villager, but it slowed the thudding of his heart, and turned his blood stale as he stared.

Lying before him— only three feet from his touch, was a very skillfully laid snare.

The trap appeared old, but it looked recently set, and the soil fresh.

It might be for an animal, but no hunter would set a trap that would completely dismember the creature when the fur was so valuable.

Flynn drew close enough to bend down and examine it. The sight almost sent him turning and running blindly away. The only reason he didn't was because he knew such recklessness would end him at the bottom of a pit. Maybe there were spikes at the base of it, considering what he was staring at now.

Then he noticed further, as the disturbed twist in his gut become painful. There was blood. Dried, shimmering red blood— and strands of human hair.

So…he found a very intentional, human made trap for humans. Well hidden, and apparently well used.

Turn back, go forward. He actually had to think about it. The thought tugged at him with convincing power. On the other hand, as adventurous and sometimes reckless as he was; he was by no means a foolish man.

The silence of the forest seemed to know he had only two choices.

He could smell blood, he could smell perfume. What force was dragging him forward? What lingered in the air like a beautiful plea?

One thing was certain. He didn't want to dismantle the trap, as much as he wanted to. It would obviously reveal his presence, which was clearly unwanted. Instead, he covered his tracks and moved around it.

From then on, his scrutiny increased tenfold, and he was thankful for his abilities. Elaborate trap after elaborate trap, well hidden, designed for death. Their very existence seemed to silence the forest they inhabited, as if to warn it to '_keep quiet. Don't reveal my secrets._'

And the forest obeyed.

There was no invitation for the sun through the thick canopy as the place only grew darker, quieter, stiller...deader…

"BACK!"

"GYA!"Flynn barked in alarm and looked up. The voice was shrill and pieced his ears, tearing through the dense silence. It was harsh, throaty, and didn't even sound human.

That's because it wasn't. On a low branch, nearly within reach, a massive crow peered down at him.

"BACK!" it cried again. "GET BACK!"

Flynn exhaled an aggravated breath and growled. Someone didn't want company; going so far as to teaching the crows to ward off intruders.

"LEAVE!"

"Yeah, yeah…" Flynn put his focus back to his surroundings. He was curious to see that the traps were thinning out, and looking more disheveled. Some were newer, some looked ancient, all set with the same expertise.

The crow hopped from branch to branch, cawing and screeching with an ill temper and occasionally repeating his words again. Flynn got to a clearing and stared at it suspiciously. He suspected a snare of the hidden variety, until the crow got his attention. Instead of throwing a fit, it started gurgling and cooing in a low tone. Its personality shifted entirely and he seemed very excited, but in a mellow, enamored sort of way.

"You're either really happy to see me get cut to pieces, or you're keeping a different secret."

The crow looked at him, then back at the clearing. It's dense, well-fed beak repeated this rapid motion several times.

"You want me to walk there, yes? Is this how you get your meals?"

The crow bounced up and down on the branch, still cooing and looking back and forth between Flynn and the smooth clearing excitedly. He would actually look charming and cute if Flynn wasn't so apprehensive.

"First you want me to leave; now you want me to die? Is that it?" It was just starting to hit him that he was talking to a crow.

The crow gave one last throaty gurgle before swooping down to the perceived threat, landing nimbly in the dirt.

Flynn stared.

It began flapping and digging at the ground, looking like an awkward tribal dance. Then it started pecking at the ground, and Flynn was startled at the sound of hollow wood.

Instinctively, he strode up and bent down. He looked at the crow momentarily as it hopped out of his way, but never flew off. Instead, it gazed up at him expectantly. Flynn shifted the dirt with his hands before his fingers sunk into an indent. He curled his fingers in and felt a large handle in the form of a wide, heavy ring.

"A door…" he breathed, looking at the crow, who suddenly bounded closer and kept digging as if telling the stranger to keep going. With one swift motion, Flynn pulled and the door opened. The crow flew downward with a joyous 'caw' and Flynn heard it echo in the eerie darkness.

A waft of cool air engulfed him and almost made him feel weak. The syrupy scent could almost be tasted and it beckoned, offering more.

He didn't understand.

He bypassed over twenty deadly traps, and here he was about to go into the realm of what was undoubtedly the trap setter. Somebody was hiding something. Somebody was hiding something with value greater than any crown, and he knew it. He needed to know what it was. He needed to know why this was so soothing, so warm and chilling at once. He was about to delve into darkness and he didn't care. That sweet, flighty sound just touched the edge of his ear lobes. The sound had brightness. The tone was silky yet desperately wound. The pitch was dipped in idle sadness. He could hear it thudding in his head, and yet he was hearing nothing at all. It was a beautiful vibe his whole body was hypnotized from, and he could not shake it. Not that he wanted to. He refused to.

Looking behind him, wondering if he would ever come back, wondering if heaven was underground, he stepped down the creaky wooden steps, and shut the door.

* * *

Flynn stepped down into soft, dry soil. Despite being well under the surface, there was an incomprehensible freshness in the air that he couldn't figure out. There was also a faint illumination in this tunnel, but the bend made it impossible to see as to where it came from. To his surprise moreover, was the sound of the flapping and crackling voice of the crow that emerged from around the bend. In the same manner of urging, the crow cackled and bounced around excitedly.

Flynn still didn't know what to think of all of this. At first the crow wanted him to leave, but since watching him avoid all traps with ease and then leading him to this secret passage, the crow seemed to all but instill complete trust in the stranger.

"I'm coming, I'm coming…" Flynn said, feeling it was his best bet to follow the bird. He felt the constant tilt of the path leading him downhill. He briefly wondered if this was the passage that led to the center of the earth. As he rounded a bend, he noticed the sloppy but sturdy pillar work holding up dense mud and granite walls. There were wooden inlets on both sides of the trail— probably rain ducts. Then he saw why the crow hadn't left him entirely. A thick wooden door was strongly braced against brawny brackets. The crow flew toward it and landed on a hefty lock.

Flynn's hands instinctively dived into his belt pouch and pulled out a couple of nifty metal prongs that he casually inserted into the lock. The crow watched curiously, remaining very still atop the lock so he wouldn't be a bother.

A familiar 'click' of success, and the crow was in a frenzy again. Flynn merely lifted a brow at him but couldn't help a small smile. He opened the door and the crow perched on his shoulder. Flynn stopped a moment to take this in. A crow was standing on his shoulder.

"You're not gonna fly on ahead?" he asked. The crow sat quietly, clicking his beak gently and darting his now softened eyes.

Flynn shut the door behind him and moved forward. It was here that the illumination was becoming brighter, and he started to see the paths split. The crow ruffled himself and started cackling to the right tunnel. Flynn translated correctly and headed in that direction, seeing the bird's return to calmness as an indication. The bird continued to be a makeshift navigator through two more bends, when the brightness of the outside caught him by surprise. He stood still for a moment, examining a thick, giant wooden grate holding up part of the ceiling. In the middle was a door, and the crow flew to it again.

Flynn went through the same process of unlocking it, never taking his eyes off what he was seeing: Lush, dense fields that sparkled like emeralds, a massive accumulation of flowers and their chorus of sugary scents. The confident roar of a healthy waterfall, and…something else far in the distance that looked odd… out of place. He couldn't tell what it was though.

The door was opened and the crow flew ahead, cawing joyously and heading straight for what Flynn deemed to be the oddity.

Flynn 'followed' the bird, still leery, but doubtful that this place would have anything resembling what he saw above ground. The field he walked into was a collective range of deep, saturated greens, and it led to a forest just as thick as the one above ground. But this forest was _alive_, teeming with vigor and angelic vitality.

Of course, this only confused him all the more. He looked up and saw sky. He turned around, and saw the face of a jagged cliff. It then struck him that perhaps the only way to this cove was through that entrance. Then who did it belong to? Why? The sound of the crow was gone. He disappeared into the forest, and having come this far, Flynn decided to venture deeper into it as well.

He cautiously stepped pass the first row the thick, powerful trees, but there was nothing warring or dangerous about this place. Flynn couldn't help but be still and appreciate it for awhile. It was absolutely beautiful. In a way, he could understand why someone would want to keep it secret, but at the same time, to the extent of human death brought him back to reality. He crept onward, admiring its beauty, fearing its mystery.

A gently shimmering river lay clear and pure before him. He noticed a few birds occasionally diving in for a quick bath or drink before flying off. He bent to wash his face and taste the clear water. He didn't realize how parched and thristy his throat was until he drank. He then became curious of the crow's behavior, and wondered why he simply didn't fly himself down here from the cliff edge.

He reserved his thoughts on the crow for later as he passed through the creek and moved deeper. The scent…the wonderful intoxicating scent was no longer a hint from a dark tunnel. This was clearly where it came from. This place is what was inviting him. He found a small patch of level ground with short, soft, baby grass. It looked like the perfect place to have lunch.

He crossed his legs and ripped chunks from his bread roll as he glanced placidly around the serene forest. Time seemed to have no authority here. The sky looked like it had never experienced a storm as it permitted the sun to touch every fragment of green. Even the sun rays seemed to stretch out and relax their glowing tendrils through dozens of welcoming canopies. The air was rich with purity and nutrients. Flynn took a massive breath. He felt like he could linger forever; his company in exchange for eternal youth. When his stomach grumbled to remind him that paradise didn't provide food, he started to dive into his bag for a second roll and some cheese, when he froze and held his breath.

No…it was impossible. He was certain he had only imagined it. He was sure that his mind only invented it to give him an excuse to come to this place.

The voice.

It was real.

It was soft and melodious and it carried through the forest like a thinly veiled angel through the sunbeams. His eyes were fixated in what he thought was the direction it came from, as he dropped everything and headed toward it. Every shred of caution he had to his point: gone. He didn't rummage or examine or pause. His breathing grew thin and patchy. His eyes darted about, dry and unblinking. How was it possible that the voice almost seemed ethereal? That it could carry itself from one forest to the next? As though it were a living entity? Flynn didn't know or care. All he knew was that it was a magnet, and it was pulling him with or without his conscience.

And then he saw it.

A strange, spindly chimney protruding from the ground.

Right from the ground.

Strangely layered shingles covered a few hundred square feet of the earth. And there, towards the left end of it, was a single square opening like a window in the soil. It was about a foot and a half all around, supported by large bricks and bars.

The voice was coming from there.

At first, Flynn hid himself in the cover of soft undergrowth, and a tree that welcomed his company as he sat across its roots. He dare not approach without surveying first.

The voice continued, and Flynn found himself relaxing in an almost drug induced state as a smile came to him. What in the hell was happening? How did a mere voice have this affect on him? He felt his insides stirring with pleasure and strength. He stretched his legs out and melted against the tree, letting out a sigh as he allowed the singing put its spell on him.

What if it was a spell?

He didn't care.

He never felt like this before. It sent his lips, his eyes, his heart twitching, and he found complete adoration in it.

He wasn't sure how much time had passed, but he found his eyes fluttering open when the singing stopped. He sat up and stretched, looking to the sky. It seemed that only a few minutes passed…

The sound of talking made him snap his head up again. It belonged to the same singing voice, muffled, quiet; brimming with the same sweetness and clarity. He was then startled to hear the sound of muffled cawing and then gentle laughter.

No sooner than when Flynn stood up, the crow popped its head from the bars, looked around, and then squeezed through. It gently crackled its beak as it looked downward before stretching its neck out.

"Bye!" it croaked. Flynn couldn't help but let out a slight chuckle. He heard the sound of the voice again, and then the crow began to fly, unknowingly, in the direction of Flynn.

"Hey…" he said quickly, as the crow flew over head. He somewhat expected it, but at the same time was surprised that the crow immediately landed at the sound of his voice. The hefty bird shuffled through the branches and landed on the one nearest. Flynn tilted his head at it, and the crow stared for a moment. Then it turned its head in the direction of the bars in the ground.

"There…" it said simply. It looked back at Flynn and then to where he had emerged. "There." He then flapped his wings and went off.

Yeah, 'there' was right. Just who and what exactly was 'there,' he very much wanted to know.

The crow made it out safe. Quite safe. He even noticed the remnants of fruit and nuts on its strong, proud beak. Whatever was 'there' it was the reason the crow was so thrilled that Flynn could bring him access to it. Of course, this once again made him wonder why the bird didn't just fly here, but... All the same, he felt it was time to approach.

He snuck up to the laid out shingles…resembling something like the top of a flattened house. There were wood beams that trailed to the barred window in the ground, almost like a makeshift path so that stepping on the shingles was avoided. Without a sound, he traveled the perimeter of this 'roof' and finally found what was far more suitable for a human than a crow.

Another locked door.

The door was about 10 meters well into the earth. A row of stone stairs led to it. Flynn could only wonder why anybody would want to live underground in a place like _this_, a phenomenally gorgeous floral paradise.

_The traps…_

Flynn flinched and blinked. He almost completely forgot about them. It was as if the serenity of this place nearly erased them from his memory. The danger of that thought stilled him. The clever deceptiveness to that notion was terrifying.

He reached for the side of his belt and unhooked the clasp to a very large knife. He didn't unsheathe it, but made sure it was ready to be. He was a skilled, dirty fighter. He could sneak up to someone in broad daylight in front of a crowd, but no one could sneak up to him in the night of a dark alleyway.

He slowly stepped down the staircase, standing before the door, breathing slowly.

He thought about knocking, but realized more clearly that the lock was on the outside.

_The outside._

He looked up with widened eyes.

_The crow visited through bars in the ground._

_A person was definitely inside._

_This entire place was underground._

_It was locked on the outside…_

This was no house.

**This was a prison. **

It may have initially appeared to be a cottage or a den or a cute little novelist's hideaway. But this was a prison in the middle of the woods, and there was a prisoner inside of here. A prisoner with a voice that bore wings.

He pondered, sweat starting to call him out by beading on his brow. His breathing was weak and wasted. Completely at a loss—woefully curious—addicted to a voice. He swallowed his fears and knowingly embraced the most careless decision he has ever made.

It would be the first time Flynn Rider ever walked willingly into a prison.


End file.
